


Something There

by archestofenemies



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Ballet, Coming of Age, Historical Hetalia, Ice Skating, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archestofenemies/pseuds/archestofenemies
Summary: France/Russia/France; Ukraine, Belarus: Before Russia develops his scary reputation, he was a gawky, lonely big-boned teenager. France shows him how to love himself. Set during the reign of Catherine the Great. De-anon from the kink meme.
Relationships: France/Russia (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

The tailors had taken his every measurement several times to ensure the finest fit, yet the shoulders were just a little too broad, the waist nipped in a little too tight. His calves felt exposed to the whims of winter, only a thin layer of silk covering them, and the fancy over-decorated shoes would provide no protection against snow and ice and wind if he were to step outside of the palace. He was quite sure he would stumble, or knock something of value over, and more than ever, he wished that he had not been summoned to court that evening.

He hated disappointing the empress, but she had matured and grown quickly in pursuit of the throne, and he could not help but lag behind, still getting used to his growing body and its quirks and pains. For her sake, he would do his best, knowing it would never be quite enough.

Taking care to not slouch as he was inclined to do, Russia peeked into the waiting room, smiling warily at his resplendent empress. She paused in her letter writing and opened her arms to him.

"You look wonderful, darling," she said, embracing him joyfully. She stepped back to take in his appearance with a critical eye, but the tailors had done a satisfactory job, and he looked so much better garbed in the royal blue coat and brocade vest and silk breeches instead of the shabby overcoat and boots he usually wore. "Have you been practicing your French like we asked you to?" she asked.

Russia nodded dutifully, although the nation in question would most likely understand him if he spoke in his own language. So he hoped.

"Good. Now keep your chin up and _smile_ ," the empress admonished him gently, despite the fact that his smile looked unsettling at best, and terrifying at worst. "Our guests have been waiting to see you. Be strong, my country, we have faith in your success."

He kissed her rouged cheeks, and with one last anxious wave in her direction, like a child being separated from their mother for the first time, he set forth to meet the nation of France.

Russia did not see him at first, and instinctively, he sought out a quiet corner of the ballroom, watching the elaborately dressed courtiers mingle and dance, butterflies and flowers in a garden of gilt and glass. No one paid attention to the tall gawky teenager in the corner, too caught up in their talk of fashion and politics and philosophy to notice someone so painfully out of place. Just when Russia thought he could make a successful escape from the cloying atmosphere, he heard a low voice call his name.

He turned to meet the source of the voice, and France flitted to his side, a dazzling vision of gold and sky blue and rose pink and azure, all lacy ribbons and sensual confidence.

" _Ah, bonsoir, cher Russie._ " A courtly bow, and the faintest brush of lips upon his gloved hand.

"Good evening, France," Russia said, suddenly hyperaware of how unsophisticated and immature he must look to this European power. France simply smiled up at him, no hint of condescension in those cool blue eyes, and Russia felt emboldened enough to continue.

"How… how do you like Saint Petersburg?" he ventured, his voice sounding squeaky and high to his own ears.

"Lovely. Utterly charming. Quaintly backwards and yet brimming with potential," France replied airily. "What would you have me say? What would your empress want to hear?"

Russia flushed hotly, caught off guard by such cheekiness. Chuckling good-naturedly, France hooked his arm around Russia's elbow, and if Russia had been slouching, which he was, he immediately straightened at the unexpected intimacy, a jolt of adrenaline making his heart flutter wildly in his chest.

"I have not seen since you were a child," France murmured, in a tone sweet enough to melt sugar. "You have grown so tall, Russia, and handsome as well."

He wanted to shake his head in denial, but instead Russia managed to force out a " _M-merci beaucoup_."

"Ah, no need for that. Speak freely with me, I promise to say nothing of it to your empress." France stood on his tiptoes and whispered, "It will be our secret, yes?"

Russia nodded, flashed him a shy smile, and let himself be swept away.

They only had to dance once, it was a request from the empress and he could not refuse, but that one gavotte was like a decade of physical torture. France nudged him in the right direction and complimented his steps, but Russia could feel sweat dampening the underarms of his shirt as they moved around the ballroom, dreading the moment he should make a mistake and embarrass all of Russia in front of the French courtiers. The other's hand looked so fragile in his grasp, and when France pressed closer towards him, Russia was compelled to pull back in an effort to keep from crushing the smaller body within the circle of his arms. Perhaps his clumsy, too-large feet understood the magnitude of his duress, for he miraculously did not falter, did not step on France's buckled shoes even once throughout the song. As the strains of the violins died away, Russia steered his partner away from the dance floor, almost trembling with relief.

Someone handed Russia a glass of champagne, and he fumbled with the delicate stem of the flute, attempting to hold it as he had been instructed. Taking pity on him, France held the his hand and gently curled his stiff fingers around the smooth crystal into the proper grip.

"Do I make you so nervous?" France asked, his expression full of concern.

Mouth gone cottony dry, Russia lowered his gaze. "I think anyone would be around someone like you," he stammered, much to France's amusement.

"Oh, you are a dear," France said, holding back a laugh, not wanting to upset this poor creature any further, "but to be honest, I would rather you think of me as your friend, your mentor, and nothing more. Can you do that?"

"I will try." But he could not guarantee that, not when the differences between them were so obvious.

France had somehow procured his own glass from a passing servant's tray, and Russia uttered an anxious but heartfelt toast to their future as friends and allies, before they drained the champagne at the same time. It dawned on Russia that he had never had champagne before, and the bubbly golden liquid tickled and teased his throat as he swallowed. A warm contented glow spread from his belly out towards his limbs, soothing his nerves, lending him a small measure of badly needed confidence. He nodded and smiled as France praised the vintage, and then offered his arm just when France reached for it, surprising the both of them. France's approving smile set him off balance again, but he rather liked the feeling this time around, as if the world had been lit aglow just for him.

It was a little nerve-wracking, matching his steps to France's shorter ones so as to not drag him along, but fortunately, France remained quiet as they strolled through the palace halls, arm in arm. Russia felt his breath slow and even, and out of the corner of his eyes, he stole quick surreptitious glances at France, looking so elegant and composed and different from the nations he called his family and neighbors. Once or twice, he thought he might have the courage to start a conversation, say something, anything to keep France here in Saint Petersburg, but the words never left his tongue, and he withdrew into the not-yet-uncomfortable silence.

"Russia?" France asked gently, seemingly out of nowhere. "Do you remember… when we first met?"

"I am sorry, I do not." Only a vague memory of a long journey westward, pleasant spring days, the sweet perfume of flowers lingering in the fabric of his scarf long after he had returned home.

"I would be surprised if you did remember. You were just a child, and your sisters were with you the whole time." France brought his other hand to rest on Russia's arm, his lips curving upward in happy nostalgia. "But I remembered that you picked a flower for my hair and you told me I was a very pretty lady."

Russia fought down the urge to blush at his younger self's foolishness. "I-I hope I did not offend?"

"Oh no, no," France laughed, a low, honeyed sound which did bring out the blush to Russia's pale skin. "Not at all." He did not finish telling him the recollection, of how he knelt and kissed the little boy's cheek in thanks, and what the little boy told him afterwards.

With an encouraging grin, France let go of Russia's arm and entwined their fingers together, palms touching.

"Can you take me to my room, dear? I am afraid I don't remember the way back just yet. But I have a gift for you there, a surprise."

Russia's eyes widened, a flash of confusion in amethyst irises before he ducked his head and glanced away. "Yes, of course, I will take you there. But," he hesitated, then continued, "You did not have to bring me a gift. Your presence here is enough." And frankly, he did not know what he did to deserve a gift from one of the great powers of Europe.

"I am certain that you will like this gift, I have _very_ good taste in these matters. Though you are free to tell me if I am incorrect in my assumption," France said.

"Oh." Russia considered this, but his curiosity won out in the end. "Would you mind if I take a look first?"

"How could I mind?" France answered, a breathless chuckle escaping before he could restrain it. "Do as you wish, _mon ami_."

Before long, they reached France's assigned chambers, and Russia lingered by the doorway, reluctant to step over the threshold and expose himself to something unfamiliar and therefore dangerous. Even though France had acted nothing but kind and sincerely affectionate towards him, and not nearly as threatening or improper as the other nations had said he would be. It was still new, was it not, and he felt a thrill all up and down his spine as he finally took a step into the room.

France had pulled out an oblong package from his luggage, which had been strewn all over the room, and he laid it on his lap while beckoning Russia closer to the bed.

"Come here. I will not bite, I promise." True, it would be silly of him to do so when he was the guest in a strange place, but he did not want to look careless in front of such a powerful empire.

Very gingerly, Russia settled onto the embroidered coverlet beside his guest, cautious, but eager to see what had been brought all the way across a continent for him. With a flourish, France unwrapped the cloth and paper from the package, setting it aside carefully, and then opened the lid of the box.

"Here is your gift, Russia."

"Oh…" Russia's eyes swept over the thin multi-colored stripes nestled within the box, hues more vibrant than any he could remember seeing, as if a tiny rainbow had been captured into solid form. "Thank you," he whispered, taking the box.

"Do you like them?" France murmured, and smiled when Russia nodded earnestly.

"But… I am not sure how to use them," he confessed, again aware of his ignorance.

"Then let me show you." Taking the sheet of the wrapping paper, France picked out a royal blue color and did a quick sketch before showing the result to Russia. "See? You can paint right on paper, without the mess of oils and canvas and brushes. Pastels are all the rage in Paris, and I wanted to be the first to show you. So, would you like to try?"

Russia glanced at the sketch, a simple portrait composed of lines and a few carefully placed smudges that somehow captured his own astonished expression exactly. "Ah, I don't think so…" Russia said, again struck with shyness. "Not now."

"What?" France exclaimed, mock indignation written all over his perfect features, causing the corners of Russia's mouth to quirk up in surprised amusement. "Well, I do not plan to go home until you use them and tell me you love them!"

Though he thought it would be nice if France could stay for a very long time, Russia promised that he would try the pastels soon. He replaced the lid and set the box aside, taking one last lingering look at the drawing.

It seemed that France noticed him looking, and he handed the paper over, still smiling. "You may keep this, too, although I would like to make a better drawing of you before I leave."

"Of me? Wh-why?"

Startled, France stared at him, as if the answer should be very obvious. "Why not? You look beautiful, dear, and I must try to capture that, for my memory may not be enough."

"I-I see." Beautiful. This lovely, dazzling person thought he, Russia, was beautiful.

"You do not believe me." Not a question, but a statement.

Long cool fingers reached out to frame his cheeks, and before he could protest, Russia found himself looking straight into those brilliant sapphire eyes, darkened with concern.

"Oh, Russia, _mon coeur_ , my heart…" France sighed, a sad, wistful sound.

"I am sorry, France, I do believe you, I didn't mean to sound disrespectful," Russia said, babbling now, not wanting to see France look unhappy, not wanting her to know he had caused him to feel unappreciated.

"There is nothing be sorry about, dearest. It is not your fault, trust me," he assured him.

Ever so gently, France placed a light kiss on the corner of his mouth, like a brush of butterfly wings on his skin and Russia almost startled at the too sudden, too intimate gesture. Yet somehow it did not feel wrong or shameful, not the way France did it, and he was surprised to realize that he would like more.

"I will see you tomorrow then? Sleep well, Russia, and sweet dreams."

France paused, as if wanting to add something more, then shrugged and smiled to himself as Russia awkwardly and adoringly kissed the tips of his fingers in farewell.

" _Bonne nuit._ "


	2. Chapter 2

Russia stared at his fingers, at the flecks of pigment caught under the tips of his nails that he hadn't had time to scrub away before being called to the empress' sitting room.

"It seems Monsieur Bonnefoy was quite taken with you, correct?"

"I hope so, my lady." He gave her a tremulous smile, and she regarded him with narrowed eyes.

"And he gave you pastels…" she trailed off, trying to make sense of this puzzle. The dazzling French courtier, the embodiment of all that she wished for her own nation, did not seem like the type to bring pastels on a diplomatic trip, as if he were trying to entertain a child. But her Russia was not a child to be indulged, he was a fully grown young man, and France, and by proxy, Europe, needed to acknowledge the strength and maturity of the empire she governed.

"They were very pretty, and so brightly colored," Russia said, barely containing his enthusiasm. "I want to draw him a picture, but I don't know what I should draw. Perhaps flowers, but no, he would like something even prettier…"

"You will find something, Vanya, do not worry," she told him, smiling indulgently. "Now listen carefully, for we request one more thing of you. Before Monsieur Bonnefoy returns to Paris, you must make an effort to consummate the alliance between France and Russia, and solidify the friendship between two great nations."

Upon seeing his look, she repeated her command, this time in much more colorful terms, and Russia blanched. It was nothing to her, a grown woman used to getting what she wanted, but to him, it was a very important, very private matter. The thought of exposing himself, making himself vulnerable, was enough to make him shudder and taste bile in the back of his throat.

"You must have some misgivings about this," her voice sounded muffled through the thudding beat of his heart, "but you will find no better instructor than France, no one who knows more about what it means to cement alliances. This is the perfect opportunity for you to learn…" Sensing that he was not quite listening to her, the empress rose to her feet and glided to where Russia sat huddling into himself in despair, and she pulled him close to her bosom.

"I have devoted much to you, Russia," she whispered, kind yet stern, using his true name now. "It is time for you to take on those duties that every nation must endure. For glory, for the empire."

Taking a few deep breaths to settle his nerves, Russia looked up into her eyes, seeing her intention, her love for him that far surpassed the affection she felt for anything else, ever since the day she first arrived at his borders as young Sophia from Prussia, to be wedded to the future emperor.

"Yes, I understand. I will not let you down, my empress." I will not let myself down, he thought, I can not. And… France would know what to do… I trust him.

* * *

Brave words, but they did not lessen his nervousness by any degree as he made his way to France's chambers. Russia knocked once, and judging by the lack of answer, he figured that he should return at a later time, in case France had not woken up yet. But as soon as he turned to leave, the door opened, and the footman, hands full of a tray of tea things, nearly ran into him. He tried to not stare, but it was too late, he had already noticed the young man's rumpled cravat and tangled hair and reddened cheeks, and it unfortunately brought to mind the empress' charge with startling clarity.

"Ah, um… is Sieur Bonnefoy awake?" he asked as calmly as he could.

Sasha, for that was the servant's name, whispered, "Yes, sir, he is awake. But he might be going back to sleep again…" The poor boy then darted away with his tray, and Russia briefly considered following him.

"Who is there? Is that you, Russia?" a sleepy voice asked from somewhere in the middle of the richly furnished chamber.

Squaring his shoulders, Russia answered in the affirmative.

"Come in. But close the door, I feel a draft. It is cold here…"

Russia stepped into the room, towards the lump huddled underneath the tangled covers. Once he got to the bedside, France peeked out from under the heavy blanket, a drowsy smile on his face. "Good morning, Russia."

It was actually closer to noon by now, but Russia returned the smile with genuine relief. "Good morning! Have you slept well, France?"

"Oh, yes, very much so."

"I am glad to hear that. Ah-" To his astonishment, France had wriggled out of the covers, and he was obviously very naked underneath, and not bashful about it at all. Russia glanced away, blushing, as France cursed softly and tried to untangle his foot from the sheets.

"D-don't you wear anything to bed?"

"I generally don't," France replied evenly. He had always had a source of body heat if he ever needed it, but such a thing had not been as easy to achieve in a strange capital. Simply getting the footman alone in his room had taken quite a bit of convincing, and it was nearly not worth the effort. "Though I see that I might have to reconsider that while I am here. It is much colder than even the worst winters in Paris."

This would have been a perfect time to insinuate something along the lines of what his ruler had been expecting, but Russia's tongue froze in his mouth as he automatically turned to the voice and got instead a rather good view of France's backside. He swallowed and stared at the floor as France rummaged through his bags for some clean clothes. Thus he was not prepared when France re-emerged into his field of vision, dressed only in his breeches and his white linen shirt still unbuttoned.

"What color of waistcoat should I wear, hmm?" France asked.

Russia gaped at him, completely at a loss for words.

"Well, since you are wearing black, I shall wear grey." Humming to himself, he picked out a white waistcoat embroidered with grey doves and a charcoal coat edged with silver threads, quickly finishing dressing without requiring the assistance Russia had needed when first faced with the newest fashions from Europe.

"He acts like a lord, but is used to doing things himself," he observed in surprise. Somehow, that struck him as sad, and Russia felt a twinge of sympathy for the older nation.

Fully clothed, with his golden hair brushed and tied back with a dark grey ribbon, France blew a kiss to his flawless reflection and turned to Russia with a triumphant smile. "Now, Russia, I am fit company for you. What shall we do on this lovely day?"

This he was prepared for, and Russia replied, "I want to take you to our library."

* * *

To Russia's relief, France seemed impressed by the selection of works the empress and her predecessors had gathered from the collected genius of Europe, by the way he ran his fingers lovingly over the leather spines, making little noises of admiration as he flipped through the pages and then placed the volumes reverently back on the shelves. Though he could not quite read the Russian texts, there were plenty of works in their original French and German and even English for him to peruse. Every now and then, the other nation would chuckle over some witticism Russia never understood or make a tsking noise of disapproval at a verse that Russia had rather liked. The stack of books in his arms grew ever taller as France added whatever of Voltaire or Diderot or Locke or some other author he fancied, though Russia could not mind, not when the first book he was to carry turned out to be a forgotten anthology of Russian fairytales extracted from a dusty corner. He supposed it was probably only a minor diplomatic gesture from France, but it made his heart sing regardless, that his feelings should be regarded like that.

They settled into the plush chairs, and Russia expected that they would speak of philosophies like civilized creatures, so that France could see for himself how far he had progressed, how he deserved to be counted as one of Europe's great nations. That was her expectation, he was certain, and the conversation started innocently enough, as Russia parroted back the words of famed thinkers to his enchanting guest, the various postulations on the state of humanity and the future of a more enlightened world.

He did not think that France would then throw those words back at him, neatly slicing apart the logic of his statements while lounging indolently upon an imported chaise, as if he did this every day between sampling fine meals and beautiful women.

Distressed, Russia tried to form a coherent reply out of what he could recall from his studies, but his tongue faltered and his thoughts scattered, and France continued to smile at him as he stammered and blushed. At last he trailed off, knowing he had failed and wanting nothing more than to melt into the floor and disappear.

"It is not so bad," France said at last, when the silence had gone on for two heartbeats too long. "Even going about it all the wrong way, you thought quickly and spoke well. I commend you."

"You… are too gracious with your praise, France. But your point is clear, for my education is still incomplete," Russia admitted, his tone humble and earnest. "I confess, it has been my dream to go to Paris someday, and study at the universities alongside the masters as you have…"

"My dear Russia, these humans that you admire, they are born, they live and love and suffer, they die before we have time to even blink," France replied carelessly, waving a gloved hand in the dusty air to emphasize his words. "And yet, yet somehow their words linger long after their flesh has rotted away. Such small things, to change the world irrevocably. You have not seen it here, I think, but I have already witnessed it for myself."

Russia stared at him, feeling a thrill steal down the back of his neck like pinpricks.

France's voice dropped to a barely audible murmur, and as if he were talking to himself, he said, "Ah, what I would give to be able to bury their words with them, and silence their mouths forever. They have become free, and in return, I am shackled…"

Then he laughed, breaking the ensuing silence, but to Russia's ears, the sound was old and hollow and haunted, like the winter wind soughing through bare trees to bring the white shroud of death over the land. It did not suit him, as the color of dreary ash and silence did not suit him. He did not like this darkness, and perhaps that unsettled him more than anything else about France so far.

"Oh, darling, why are you frowning?" France asked, leaning forward in his seat, blue eyes wide with concern, as if he had completely forgotten about his previous grim musings. "I have teased you too much, haven't I, and now you are upset." With a dramatic sigh, France flowed to his side, and at his touch, Russia smiled, briefly and nervously.

"I am not upset," he insisted weakly, feeling tongue-tied once more at the contact. "But sometimes, I can not understand what you say, and must guess instead."

" _Oui_ , that often happens, unfortunately," although France did not look particularly rueful on that issue. "Here, let me make amends to you, for I never meant to cause you unhappiness."

France's breath was suddenly hot on his cheek, his hand warm on his thigh, and Russia found it difficult to swallow or breathe or even think as the other nation slid onto his lap. He knew he must have made some noise of protest, but he could not resist when he felt France gently cradle his face in his hands and kiss him lightly on the lips, once, twice, thrice. Though his heart raced with alarm and the heady sense of danger, his muscles remained slack and his arms moved only to pull France closer. He was drowning, or trapped in a witch's spell, and yet his panic drained away under the steady stream of sweet French compliments whispered into his ear. My heart, my bright star, my cute little cabbage, France murmured, alternating each endearment with a kiss that stole more and more of his breath away.

They only stopped when the growling in each of their stomachs became too loud and inelegant to continue.

Chuckling at Russia's expression, France reassured him that they were both growing boys, and at this time in their growth, sustenance rather superseded romance. Russia agreed to take him to the kitchens, although reluctantly, but the interruption turned out to be quite welcome, for he got to watch France confront the fearsome head chef about his cooking techniques that had been imported from Europe. He wished he had his pastels with him so that he could draw France screeching at the chef in broken Russian, his color high with indignation at what he considered to be a mockery of his cuisine.

"Boiled beets!" France muttered as they sat down to the meal that he managed to put together himself: savory pate, salted fish, creamy vegetable soup, delicate honeyed cakes, though the quality was not to his standards. "I am certain my heart can not take the insult any longer."

"I like beets..." He did not, not really, but one can get used to anything with enough vodka, something he noticed was conspicuously absent from the table setting.

"I know, Russia, and I am truly sorry for that."


	3. Chapter 3

They wandered the palace grounds after they had eaten, France holding Russia's hand tightly in his own and refusing to let go even when passing servants and courtiers gave them surreptitious glances. Still shy, but not uncomfortably so, Russia showed his visitor the gallery of the royal family portraits, a dainty sitting room painted sunny yellow, a little-used closet where he had found a mother cat and her three kittens the other day, the balconies overlooking the palace courtyard, blanketed in crystalline white snow, where he liked to go look at the flowers in the summer. France assured him he had never seen such a lovely sight outside of Versailles, and that made Russia crack a smile, for Versailles was the most beautiful place he could imagine from the reports he had read, and nothing in St. Petersburg or even Moscow could hope to compare.

"You think I exaggerate, why, I speak the truth, dearest! It hardly snows where I live, and never so prettily."

"But there is nothing pretty about snow," Russia said, tearing his gaze from France to look at the calm landscape beyond the glass doors. "It's just cold and white and troublesome when you get too much."

For a second, France stared at him, mouth agape, brows arched in surprise. " _Ben, euh…_ " He forced out a light laugh, murmuring, "I suppose you would know more than I would."

"That - that is not so," Russia stammered, now afraid that he might have insulted France, and cursing himself for acting so thoughtlessly. "It is only my opinion, nothing more."

France gave him a fond look, his eyes bright with amusement, and said, "Russia, you did know I mean to say that _you_ were beautiful?"

"Oh. Err… I am sorry, I did not realize," he admitted, blushing. He mumbled _merci_ , it seemed that was the only thing he could remember in French whenever he was around France, and France laughed, genuinely this time, before standing on his tiptoes and kissing him on the nose.

"You are too sweet, _mon chou_! I am so lucky to have met you."

Then Russia's heart was thrumming like a captive bird in the cage of his chest, and he felt as if he could fly or fall that very moment, and it would all be because of this warm, vibrant person beside him. "I… I think I am the lucky one," he said at last, and France, simpering and basking in the compliment, would never know that was the first time in his life Russia ever thought such a thing about anyone.

* * *

It had crossed his mind that perhaps he should not have suggested this activity, but France was determined to join him despite his inexperience, and Russia could not say no, not when the rest of him wanted desperately to say yes. So that was how they ended up on outside the palace, Russia standing at the edge of a frozen pond, France still far from shore.

"W-wait for me, Russia! I am not quite as good at this as you are!" France exclaimed breathlessly, teeth chattering even though he was wrapped in a small forest's worth of furry mammals. Yes, his sweet little Canada did teach him how to skate, long ago, but he disliked the cold and never really practiced. Obviously.

Russia opened his mouth to say something encouraging, but could only watch in horror as France's knees wobbled in an attempt to propel his body towards land, and he winced as the other nation flailed and then crashed onto the ice.

Swearing under his breath, France struggled to his feet, barely winning against gravity and the slick frozen surface of the pond. His lips and nose were reddened and tingling, his knees and hands and bottom were bruised, and the rest of his body felt frozen and numb. He was cold, humiliated, aching, and he knew he must look positively fat wearing all of these furs to keep warm. Every ounce of his self-control not invested in trying to stay upright was spent trying to look like he enjoyed this, and now France was fast losing patience with his suddenly graceless, unbalanced legs. But he thought all of this rather worth it, to see that adoring expression on Russia's face, as if no one ever bothered to do anything that poor boy liked.

Somehow, France seemed further away from solid land than he was before, and Russia did not know if he should risk going to help him, for his expression was bordering on frightening.

"Are… you sure you learned how to skate?" Russia asked, sounding a little dubious.

"Of course!" France insisted as he gingerly slid forward a hand's length, his stomach lurching from the effort. "My home simply does not get this cold, so I can not practice as often as I would like."

"Ah, I see."

"Absolutely." France relaxed a little once he saw that he was not going to land on his face anytime soon, and he shot a hopeful glance towards his host. "Russia, darling… promise me you won't tell England about this?"

Instead of answering, Russia found himself laughing, a meek little chuckle that kept bubbling out uncontrollably, until he was gasping for breath and wiping the tears from his eyes. Apparently, France did not take being laughed at any better than he liked being questioned, and he stomped a foot indignantly, squawking when that motion nearly made him lose his balance again.

Taking pity on him, Russia skated over to apologize. Though he still looked angry, France clung to him gratefully, waving the apology aside in favor of having support.

"Ah, much better! I would rather skate like this, you know."

Of course he would, Russia thought, but he did not mind France sighing happily and burrowing into his arms. He loved this warm, cozy feeling, from being with someone who enjoyed his company, who wanted to touch and hug and kiss him all the time, who treated him like a friend and not like a monster or chattel or worse.

France's cold hands under his shirt shocked him out of his reverie, and bemused, Russia tried to convince his guest that he needed a warm room and some hot coffee more than he needed a possibly fatal romp in the snow.

Not that he would have really died, at least not permanently, but France did not cease shivering and pressing up against Russia's side until they were back indoors. A servant had stepped forward to put their skates away in storage, although Russia barely registered it, for he had eyes only for his guest, whose face was currently buried into the ruffles of his cravat.

"Are you all right, France?" Russia kept asking, and finally France tilted his chin up and pursed his lips.

"I am fine now, dear, thanks to you."

"Is there anything else I can do?"

"You may kiss me."

He did. "I am not sure that did anything."

"You may need to kiss me again," France suggested meaningfully.

Leaning forward to press his lips against France's once more, Russia at last noticed the footman, France's to be exact, trying to sneak out of the parlor with the skates as quietly as possible. He was distracted by this realization long enough for France to deepen the kiss, and yet he did not mind, as long as Sasha could see that he did not mind.

As it turned out, France's much harassed servant was actually very glad of this turn of events, and had promptly gone to tell everyone who would be interested to know.

France, now back on solid ground instead of a few fingers' width away from an icy submersion, eventually regained his usual grace and good humor as the feeling returned to his extremities, and he flitted through the halls in anticipation of a cozy bed and a cup of hot coffee to complete the thawing process. As their fingers were still entwined, Russia followed close behind, eyes once again trained on the floor, though occasionally distracted by the glitter of France's ridiculously impractical heeled slippers.

Even his shoes are incredible, Russia thought in awe, who had never given shoes a second thought as long as they protected his feet from frostbite or injury. Not for the first time, he wondered why such a glamorous nation would make the difficult journey to St. Petersburg, in the middle of nowhere, so far from the lights of Paris.

"Russia, _chéri_?" France asked, having paused mid-step to look over his shoulder. "What has the ground done to you, that you must stare at it so intently?"

He smiled at the other's teasing tone. "The ground is faultless, France. I was just thinking about what else we could do later, if you wanted to, with me..."

"Oh?" France sidled up to him with a delighted grin. "What did you have in mind, hmm?"

Thus encouraged, Russia continued shyly, "We could have dinner together, somewhere private... And then maybe we could watch the dancers rehearse for their performance." He was secretly quite proud of the imperial ballet despite its newness, and he both anticipated and dreaded France's reception of the company.

"That sounds marvelous! And what about afterward?" France continued, almost purring by now.

"You mean, after that?" Russia struggled to keep from blushing, but trust his telltale heart to give his feelings, his thoughts, away. "Whatever you would like?" he ventured in a tiny voice.

"Darling, you really should not let me have my way every time. I am your guest, after all, at your mercy." France chuckled, a pretty, airy sound, and Russia stared at him in helpless infatuation. "But I suppose we should wait and see what happens first," France declared, smoothing his lapels down with a reassuring gesture. "We do not need to hurry, love, we have all the time in the world."

There was nothing Russia wanted to hear more than that. "Of course."

* * *

Dinner took place in a balcony box seat above the theater, and they enjoyed a fine nearly French meal together, consisting of braised meat and baked fish, loaves of dense bread, perhaps too much cabbage, and a dish of sweetened cranberries to nibble with the delicate cakes. They talked of various matters, or at least France did, while Russia smiled at him and tried to inconspicuously push France's wandering foot away from between his legs with one hand below the table.

Below them, the orchestra played through its repertoire, the sound deep and vibrant and harmonious, and above, the chandeliers sparkled under the flickering light of tallow candles. Nothing could have been more perfect, more romantic.

And then the dancers came on stage to rehearse.

France peered over the railing in silence, utterly enthralled by the beauty and elegance of the ballet company, even though they were only warming up and practicing. He had played at dancing himself, joining several troupes throughout the years as an understudy, relishing the challenge, adoring the spotlight, and he could appreciate the level of skill already apparent in these men and women still new to the art. Two in particular caught his eye, young maidens garbed in flowing white, their hair as pale as ash, skin as bleached as snow, and he smiled knowingly to himself.

"Do you know those lovely young ladies to the left of the stage, Russia?"

"Y-yes," Russia whispered, his voice thick with nervousness. "They are Ukraine and Belarus, my sisters."

"I should like to meet them," France murmured dreamily, obviously imagining himself romancing both sisters, along with the brother, and unlike what usually transpired in real life, succeeding in capturing their hearts with his charms. At his side, Russia groaned and ducked behind a velvet curtain, shivering.

"I'm not so sure that is a good idea."

"Certainly you are not concerned that I would abandon your company for theirs?"

"No, but I am not the jealous one here," Russia insisted. As if she heard him, the younger sister glanced up towards their balcony, squinting into the darkness, and Russia whimpered quietly in fear.

"W-we should go, France, before they see us!"

"But they just started practicing, I can't leave yet," France protested, not one to easily abandon the opportunity to watch shapely women and men cavorting about dressed in their underclothes.

Not even bothering to argue any further, Russia dragged France out of the balcony, scooping him up into his arms and promptly running for his life.

He dumped France unceremoniously into his bed, then ran to lock the door, wedging a chair below the doorknob and pushing a heavy wooden dresser in front of the chair.

"Do you realize you've locked yourself in with me?" France asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Better you than her," Russia answered shortly, stalking about the room to see if there were any open windows or secret passages that Belarus could use.

Laughing, France said, "Come to bed, my sweet. You will be in no danger from me, I promise."

Finally realizing his situation, Russia froze like a rabbit hearing the screech of a hawk. He turned slowly, forcing his lips into a rictus of a smile, which would have frightened the wits out of anyone less focused on sex than France. But France being France returned his smile with a playful wink, slipping his stockinged feet out of his shoes. Russia edged towards him uncertainly, feeling light-headed from the rush of adrenaline, and was nearly yanked off balance when France sought to pull him into bed. Kneeling on top of the covers, he watched, dry mouthed, as the other nation take off his coat and unbutton his vest.

"Oh? Would you like to undress me yourself?" France offered.

Blushing furiously, Russia held his hands up and shook his head, but France moved closer, taking his hands in his own and placing them on his chest. He gulped and attempted to slip the waistcoast off France's shoulders as gracefully as he can, and after that, France began to disrobe him ever so calmly.

"W-wait!" Russia squeaked, grabbing France's wrists to hold them still.

"What's wrong, darling?"

"I am just… not ready." He never had been, all those other times before, and now he felt his inexperience sharply and it distressed him.

"Ah…" France regarded him, his expression searching, concerned. "Do you want to stop?"

Torn between his fears and his duties, Russia debated over his choices and finally muttered, "No…"

"Then you will just have to trust me, Russia." He kissed him on his nose, a brotherly gesture this time, and Russia gave him a tiny smile.

"I will."


	4. Chapter 4

When they had stripped down to their shirts and breeches, the two of them snuggled under the covers, France curling up next to Russia as he opened the book of fairy tales they had collected from the library, and he began to read, translating as he went.

_...This is the tale of Snowmaiden, born of Fairy Spring and Father Frost. Her skin was white as snow, her eyes blue like the sky, her hair as bright as gold. Because Sun God's rays would destroy her, she had to hide in the dark woods. One day, she heard a beautiful sound and followed it to the edge of the forest. There in an open field was a farm boy playing his flute. Snowmaiden listened and watched and became enchanted with the boy. But he never noticed the beautiful girl in the woods, and only played for the farm girls dancing in the fields. Heartbroken, Snowmaiden asked her mother, "Please let me feel real love." And Fairy Spring understood and said, "If you want real love, then you must go to the farm boy in the open field." So she did, stepping out of the shadows, and the boy saw her and thought she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Just then, Snowmaiden stepped into a ray of sunshine, which illuminated her beauty to the fullest. But the sun was too strong for her, and she melted before the boy's eyes..._

France sighed wistfully after the tale ended, his eyes closed in appreciation. "Are you Snowmaiden, Russia? And am I your farmboy?"

Closing the book and setting it aside, Russia considered this question. "I had thought it was the other way around."

* * *

In the privacy of the night, they lay in each other's arms, Russia nearly delirious with simultaneous dread and delight. France's nuzzling and petting had felt divine, his whispers soothing and sweeter than sugar, but rather than making him sleepy, they were doing quite the opposite. It was like his entire body was practically vibrating from excitement, whereas France seemed to be lulling himself to sleep.

"France? Are you still awake?" Russia whispered quietly.

"Yes. Can you not sleep?"

"Not yet…"

"I have a cure for sleeplessness. Are you willing to try it?" France asked in a low, warm voice, and there was no mistaking what he intended.

Here it was, the moment he had been anticipating, and yet Russia did not feel any panic or apprehension.

He licked his lips and said yes.

Chuckling, France kissed him again, sliding his tongue in between his lips effortlessly, and Russia made a hum of helpless pleasure as France pressed their bodies even closer, their legs tangling together. His hands glided down the silk of his shirt, fingers working at the buttons once more. Russia whimpered shyly in protest, not wanting to reveal how bulky and clumsy he would look next to France's waif-like form, and France glanced at him questioningly.

"Please, can't I leave my shirt on for this?" he asked.

"Darling, what are you afraid of? That you will get cold?"

"That you will laugh…"

"Nonsense," France murmured, trying to reassure him.

"You've laughed at me before, do you not remember?" Russia insisted. "Just a few hours ago, you laughed."

In the face of such implacable logic, France had to hesitate before admitting, "I was only lightening the mood, Russia, I was certainly not laughing iat/i you. Believe me, imon étoile/i, I would never do anything to hurt your feelings, and if I had, I am sorry…"

France smothered him with little kisses until he was forced to surrender to the onslaught of affection, and under the cover of the sheets, he slid out of his shirt, too embarrassed to go naked all at once, unable to look directly at France's face. Next to him, France had already taken off his own shirt, and soon they were pressed together again, Russia lying stiffly on his side, trying to summon the courage to return the other's previous caresses. Thankfully, France did not try to rush him, he simply smiled at him with a bright, encouraging smile that, in Russia's eyes, seemed to cast a warm glow in the dark room.

Because of that, that small yet significant sign of trust, Russia could bring himself to touch France to his heart's content, running his fingers curiously over the planes of his body, the bumpy outline of his ribs, the silky roughness of the sparse hair on his chest. France did giggle then, tickled by Russia's feather-light touches, and Russia smiled, suddenly feeling less awkward and a little more comfortable.

"You feel very nice," he said, aware of how simple he must have sounded, not able to think of a better word that could capture even a fraction of what he was feeling. Because it was so new to him, being allowed to explore his partner's body freely, and that the one next to him was France only made it more special. To feel not just the beating of his heart, but the secret thrum underneath his skin of the millions of memories and lives that made up a nation.

"Russia, please…" France whispered tenderly, his voice low and throbbing. "Please let me…"

Then he found himself lying back on the sheets, head resting on plush pillows as France kissed his lips, his chin, his collar bone, mouth following the trail his fingers left, as if he were drawing a path over Russia's skin to stoke the fire in his blood. France paused to rest his cheek against Russia's chest, just listening to his heartbeat, long golden hair spread everywhere. The sudden intimacy of that gesture, far beyond anything Russia had ever experienced, took him off guard, making his heart pound and his cheeks flush. Then he brought his hand up to carefully brush France's hair from his face, and France glanced up and smiled at him.

"Tell me what you like, my dear," he murmured, and the warmth of his breath made Russia shiver in helpless delight. "I will do what you want, and what you never knew you wanted."

"I like this," Russia confessed. "Just this, is good enough…"

"But this is only the beginning."

"If this is the beginning, I am not sure I can survive the rest."

"It is only a little death," France teased, and Russia hissed softly as France's fingers played deftly over a nipple, "you will wake up from it, I promise."

"Ah…" Russia sighed, closing his eyes and trying to hide his grin. "Then you must show me what you mean, for the sake of my enlightenment."

"My pleasure. And I do mean that."

* * *

It was pleasure for both, for France did not waste a moment trying to find all of the places that would make Russia moan and gasp and sigh, each discovery inflaming his own desire as it did his partner's. Between kisses and nips, he kept up a quiet stream of compliments, outrageously florid and exceedingly dramatic even for his tastes, but Russia easily blushed at them all, having never been the object of such praise before.

"You are silly, France, I am not that beautiful."

"But I am not blind, Russia," he countered gently. "Being with you makes my heart sing, and that is beauty as well."

During this time, France had managed to shuck the sheets off so sneakily, Russia did not notice that he was now bared to the faint light of the moon. Pale and soft and innocent, ready to be loved. It almost broke his heart to see those dark violet eyes brimming with guarded hope, as if Russia still could not believe this was happening to him. He would have to fix this, show the boy he was worthy of love and pleasure and happiness, like everyone else.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Ah, please forgive me." France smiled and reached down to squeeze a very sensitive region mischievously, causing Russia to moan again.

"I was just wondering… how this would feel," he whispered, fingers stroking lightly over the thin fabric of Russia's breeches already stretched tightly over his growing arousal. "How it would feel to have you inside of me, moving, thrusting, filling me to my limits and then more…"

The high-pitched whimper from Russia was like music to his ears. But they were not quite there, not yet, not when they had so much more to look forward to this night.

* * *

France's incessant teasing had brought Russia almost to the brink, and each time he thought he might tip over, France somehow managed to keep him holding back, until he was panting for air, body trembling from the effort. Those clever long fingers working his breeches down, then curling around his freed erection, working, exploring, while France murmured something in his own language – something probably filthy, Russia could not spare the concentration to mentally translate. Instead he clenched at the sheets tightly, willing France to go faster and harder now, now, now…

He came in a rush, a keening cry, back arching off the sweat-damp bed as his orgasm roared through his body, leaving an incredible sensation of floating weightless in its wake. Groggily, Russia opened his eyes to see France licking his fingers with every evidence of enjoyment, before swooping down to clean off the mess on his abdomen.

"Magnificent," France purred between each lazy swipe of his tongue, "so beautiful, so perfect."

Russia smiled and said, very earnestly, "I would not mind dying again with you…"

That was exactly what France wanted to hear, and he almost preened in triumph.

"With you," Russia repeated drowsily, and France shushed him.

"I am fine, darling, you do not have to do anything for me."

"But I want to, please." And France could not refuse such a request so sweet. He leaned gracefully on one hand, the other slowly working the buttons of his breeches free before sliding the velvet material down off his hips. Unable to restrain himself, Russia surged up from the sheets, reaching for him impatiently, and France grabbed his wrist to hold him still.

"Gently, not so roughly," he warned.

"Oh-oh, I am sorry." Though Russia's cheeks flushed red at his clumsiness, his eager gaze followed France's fingers clasping over his, masterfully guiding his movements, nails skating lightly over his hips, fingertips sliding over the soft warm skin at the juncture of his legs, then up his stiffening length, to stroke at the already wet head. France's eyelids gradually lowered, almost closing, though his lips parted to gasp and sigh and mumble in pleasure. After a while, he let his hand drop away from Russia's, no longer seducing or acting or even teaching, too intent on feeling, simply being.

Russia hesitated then, so entranced by the look on France's face, suspended in a moment of otherworldly bliss, that he did not realize he had stopped moving his hand and was instead pulling France closer to him until they were skin to skin once more. How he had wanted this, to be so close to someone that the space between their bodies disappeared and they united, becoming one being. France began writhing in his embrace, nearly sobbing aloud now, and Russia was more than happy to let France rub and thrust and grind for release however he wished.

Only the briefest warning, the deep tremor through France's body, the deliciously sharp pain of teeth biting into the base of his neck, and then Russia found himself holding an exceptionally satisfied nation in his arms, a spreading hot wetness in between his thighs to match that seeping down his left shoulder.

France mumbled a breathless apology, licking and sucking at the blood sleepily with soft little smacking sounds, and Russia remained still, very much aware of his own recovering arousal. By the time France finished cleaning the wound he had made, kissing him with metallic tasting lips to say sorry, Russia was using every last bit of will to keep himself in check. The longer France rested on top of him, the more distressed he felt, and unfortunately it seemed that his partner was perfectly content to go to sleep like that. Russia shifted uncomfortably, trying to see if he could stroke himself off one-handed without disturbing France. But his surreptitious movements alerted the other nation, and France awoke from his daze, blinking at him slowly.

"Still not sleepy?" he asked with a quiet chuckle. " _Non_ , I know what you are going to say, but love, there is no need to apologize."

It was true, Russia had been about to apologize, embarrassed about his body's urgent need for release _again_ , but France assured him it was only natural to feel this way, especially with such _desirable_ company. That made Russia smile, and he exhaled in relief as France bent forward and nuzzled and kissed his way down his belly, for once content in his own skin, if it meant that he could be worshipped like this just once.

Russia felt dry lips pressing against his pelvic bone and shuddered in delight to sense those lips touching his cock next, dropping kisses like snowflakes over the heated shaft. Then he groaned, feeling a smooth warm tongue sliding up the underside of his erection, the movement ending with a flourish at the head, neatly licking off drops of precome welling from the slit. As expected, France took him easily into his mouth, accommodating his entire length with hardly a blink, practically humming with satisfaction as he sucked. Tongue and lips and teeth all complied to bring him to completion, and Russia surrendered gladly, fingers curled tightly in France's hair as he thrust into that wet heat with awkward, needy jerks. Even in the midst of all of this, France apparently had the presence of mind to knead at his testicles with one thumb, knuckles reaching into the cleft of his ass before pushing through the tight muscle and causing Russia to nearly choke in surprised pleasure. The simultaneous sensation of penetrating and being penetrated was incredibly intense, and he could not stop the babble of words from spilling from his lips as he lost himself to the feeling, uninhibited by shame or fear or sense of inexperience. That slicked finger inside him then brushed the right spot at the right time, and he felt his body clench in response, tightening in one splendid second before releasing. With a wordless cry, he spilled into France's waiting throat, riding out his climax until he was naught but a trembling, sweating mass of meat and bone and skin.

His hair tousled and tangled, lips swollen and spit-slick, France still managed to look supremely composed, only a tiny spot of semen on his cheek to indicate what he had just done. Below him, Russia looked ready to pass out.

"Thank you, France… I… I think I can get to sleep now," he whispered, sounding far more satisfied than embarrassed, but a little embarrassed, too.

"Then sleep. I will be here tomorrow, my darling, I promise."

France curled up next to Russia, who enfolded him in his arms, and together, they eventually fell asleep in the comfortable silence.


	5. Chapter 5

Russia woke up several times throughout the night, and every time, he had to convince himself he was not still dreaming, that someone really was sleeping in the same bed with him, apparently peacefully, unafraid. He caressed France's hair and kissed him on the cheek, just to make sure this was real, and France mumbled in his sleep, nestling further into the curve of his body. Sighing contentedly, Russia closed his eyes, tracing out the scene in his mind so that he would remember all of this afterwards, when he would be alone again.

* * *

It was about midway through the morning and Russia decided to kiss France until he woke, which took quite a few attempts since France was such a late riser. But France finally opened his eyes, smiling sleepily and saying, "See? I told you I would still be here."

They laid in bed for several minutes, kissing and petting, basking in each other's presence. There was only a trace of the shyness of last night in Russia, France noticed, and he was certainly surprised when Russia pressed him down into the mattress, ready to resume certain _activities_ before the need for sleep so rudely intervened. Kicking the sheets away, France laughed and stretched out underneath him, letting him experiment, encouraging him, drawing out smiles and gasps and looks of adoring wonder from them both.

"Is this making love?" Russia asked, breaking off a rather concerted effort to leave a mark on France's neck. "Are we making love?"

"Yes," France answered in a low purr. "This is it."

Russia gazed at him, a curious look in his eyes. "It is different. It feels… too good…"

"Oh, darling, that is because you are with me."

He laughed at that, not a quiet little chuckle, but a full, delighted laugh. "You sound very confident of yourself."

France pulled him back down for another kiss and an accompanying squeeze of his buttocks, which felt even more marvelous than he could have guessed. "And it is also because you are a very talented student, Russia."

Such a brazen gesture was enough to make Russia blush, but he managed to collect his wits and said, quite seriously, "I suppose you will now claim that I still have much to learn."

"Mmm, of course," France admitted, shamelessly gleeful at his student's swift understanding of the situation. "Let us not waste time then!"

They would have continued their love-making, but as expected, their stomachs started making hideous noises, and the need for food quickly supplanted the need for sex. This tragically required getting out of bed and getting dressed, as no servant would be able to deliver a meal with a wardrobe and chair blocking the door. Russia was more than happy to wear his old clothes from last night, but France looked absolutely horrified by the idea and fluttered about the room, trying to find a new outfit for his partner and failing, for nothing he owned would have fitted. At last he put on some fresh clothes, fussing over his hair in front of the mirror before Russia finally dragged him out of the room and towards the kitchen.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent in each other's company, after confirming with the palace servants that Russia's sisters have departed for the day and then eating a very large midday meal that would have fed at least four. And despite his misgivings, his own insecurities, Russia now felt more at ease, if not completely so, for France continued to bewilder him with alternating displays of affection and criticism that could never be predicted.

Still, to Russia it seemed that behind his façade of old-world decadence and almost insufferable self-pride, France had a sensibility that was admirable. He simply loved to love, no matter what, and for that, Russia was more grateful than he could say.

Even though the Winter Palace was surely not half as wonderful as the palace in Versailles, France expressed immense enjoyment with Russia's haphazard tour of the grounds. Hand in hand, they passed by the aptly named Grand Church and strolled through a glittering series of halls and drawing rooms, bustling with servants and courtiers. If France felt envious of the empress' vast collection of priceless artwork, he did not say so, and instead complimented Russia on his ruler's impeccable taste, while Russia nodded and silently wondered how they could afford such lavish purchases.

They stopped at Russia's own room after France started lagging behind, clearly regretting his choice of footwear. Sighing in relief, France settled on the bed, stretching his cramped legs and toes while Russia sat down beside him.

"I am sorry there is not much to do at this time, France."

"That is no matter, I can think of plenty of things to do right here, right now."

"R-really? Me, too," Russia answered enthusiastically, and he pulled out his box of pastels and some sheets of paper while France quickly replaced his look of disappointment with delight.

"Ah, we could certainly do that as well."

"I gathered so much inspiration looking at the gallery with you today," Russia murmured shyly, "I thought maybe we could practice drawing for a little bit. If you don't mind, that is."

"No, I don't mind." France watched as Russia carefully set the pastels on the blankets between them and then place a sheet of paper on a drawing board. "Are you going to draw me?"

Russia nodded, a hopeful look on his face.

"Then let me take off my clothes first."

"Oh, but... but I would like to draw you with your clothes on."

"Clothes on? That is not fine art, that is not natural art," France insisted, halfway through the process of untying his elaborate cravat.

"But it is more natural for you to be wearing clothes, is it not?"

"My natural state is nudity."

Russia considered this, found it to be very true, particularly for France, and tried a different tack. "I would not like for you to be cold."

That won him over instantly. "You are a very considerate artist, my dear."

* * *

In the end, he sketched France, fully clothed, lounging against a stack of pillows and struggling to read a book in Russian. Though the pose was supposed to be elegantly contemplative in the manner of a scholar in his private abode, Russia was able to capture France's expression after he failed to translate the unfamiliar letters properly and had to ask for help.

"Do you think it looks like you?" Russia asked once he finished.

France glanced at the sketch, simply yet neatly drawn with a striking combination of angles and curves, and smiled. "No one has ever drawn my nose right, but you have succeeded. I love it, Russia, I really do."

Flushing with pride, Russia thanked him for being a cooperative model.

"Now for the next time, we must do this naked."

"What, me too?"

"Why yes. How can you truly know the nuances of the human body in its natural glory without shedding the trappings and bindings of man-made materials and becoming one with nature yourself?"

Russia gave him a suspicious look. "I think you are trying to trick me into bed with you."

France pouted as adorably as he could, which was still passably adorable at the apparent age of nineteen. "Is there something wrong with that? I love being with you, I love looking at you, there is no trick."

Russia still looked suspicious, but this was mitigated by the effects of the compliment. "M-maybe some other time."

"Why not now? While the sun is out and I can see you."

"You mean while _I_ can still see _you_ , I am the one drawing…" But he was already halfway convinced, and at any rate, there was nothing to do until the evening meal and the dance, so they might as well…

No longer concerned about being a little chilled for the sake of fine art, France divested himself of his clothes, taking care to do so as provocatively as possible for the benefit of the artist. Russia watched the pieces of silk and velvet and brocade slip off of France's body with a rustle, and after France finished and gave him a meaningful look, he shrugged, admitting he might need a little assistance taking off his clothes, as unused to them as he was.

Of course, France was more than willing to help.

When they were fully nude, France positioned himself gracefully on the bed, and Russia pulled his chair closer, board and paper and pastels at hand.

"Are you certain about this?" The pose France had selected was frankly scandalous, and Russia felt certain the paper would burn itself up out of disapproval if he tried to draw it. He was already starting to feel the heat, and he had not even picked a color yet.

" _Oui_. It is for your eyes only, so do not be shy. Draw me."

But France seemed determined to make that impossible, staring at Russia while he worked, his blue eyes alight with mischief as Russia fumbled with his pastels, embarrassed by the scrutiny. The boy was absolutely precious, made of mostly elbows and knees and nose and ears, but already strong and tall and spare, with just a hint of plumpness softening the lines of his body. Time would lend him the power and confidence to use his strengths, so for now, he would whittle away at Russia's insecurities, bit by bit.

Thinking on that, France closed his eyes, smiling, letting the hand resting on his stomach creep lower, stroking and caressing. He imagined himself worshipping Russia's form, palms of his hands against that broad chest and soft belly, fingers flicking over cool smooth skin and feathery hair. How he yearned to hold him and kiss his fears away, love him as he ought to be loved, fill that emptiness and loneliness inside with love. France let out a soft moan as he continued running his fingers between his thighs and over his length, seeing behind his eyelids himself pleasuring Russia, or perhaps the other way around, or perhaps they were both indulging themselves at the same time, it did not matter.

There was a lengthy silence from where Russia was sitting, interrupted only by the sound of his breathing, to be followed by a clatter as the drawing board slid unnoticed to the ground. France opened his eyes then, grinning as Russia knelt over him, his expression aching with desire.

They were still practicing, but it was another art now, one that France felt slightly more qualified to teach. Slyly, he retrieved the bottle from where he had hidden it under a pillow, and Russia's eyes widened.

"For comfort, love," France said, letting a few glistening drops drizzle onto his palm, the faint perfume of roses wafting up into the air. Gently, Russia dipped his dusty fingertips into the liquid, delicately painting France's torso until he was smeared and streaked with a rainbow of oil and pigment, and their mutual arousal too difficult to ignore any longer.

They dove into each other at that moment, lips locked tight in breathless kisses, bodies pressing close as their limbs entangled and entwined. Never let go, never stop, Russia prayed, make us become one, truly one, and France heard him and answered him, granting his prayers. He nearly wept in thankfulness as France showed him what to do, how best to please them both, guiding him patiently, cooing passionate praises and sweet encouragement that seared into his mind like a fire brand. Russia darling, you are so splendid, yes, so large and fine, please, oh, please come, come, oh come, _oui_ , like that, _mon amant_ , ah…

He came first, unable to hold himself back, not with this sensation of being fully united with someone else, so deep inside, but before he could apologize, France had freed himself and was preparing him in return, and Russia could do nothing but lie back and succumb with a pleased groan. Again becoming one, although this time Russia was the one pleading for more as they moved together. France sighed his release, thin hips shuddering and then stilling, and for a moment, they simply rested and said nothing.

With a happy noise, Russia took France into his arms, wanting to sleep cuddled next to him, but France chuckled and tried to push him aside.

"We are a mess, darling, we simply must bathe."

As bathing was never very pleasant during the winter, Russia frowned, but it was undeniable, they were both covered with pastel colors and oil and various bodily fluids, and there was no possibility of going to a banquet without having washed themselves clean. He conceded with a mournful sigh, and began the laborious process of getting bathwater heated.

Even with the necessity of lathering and scrubbing and rinsing, France managed to make it seem like the most luxurious and sensual activity ever, waxing poetic over how Russia glowed under the gentle sparkle of the water, until Russia splashed him in the face with some, and they ended up spilling half the water on the floor in an impromptu tussle, which required the maid to bring in another bucket before they could finish bathing.

* * *

The banquet was as magnificent as France could have hoped for in this cold and austere setting, the array of dishes well-chosen and delicious, the company charming in a rather boisterous manner. The two nations had been seated at the empress' table, but to the side, where Russia spent most of his time staring at France and ignoring the winks the empress was sending his way. Every now and then, their conversation was interrupted when a particularly patriotic citizen would feel compelled to stop and shake hands with this strange young man, or more often in France's case, kiss him for what Russia felt like was an unnecessarily long time. But at least they did not linger too long, only long enough to satisfy their sense of pride, not quite long enough to understand what they were doing or even remember exactly what they have done.

"I must admit, they don't do that much at home," France murmured, dabbing at his lips with a napkin after particularly fierce kiss from a comtesse.

"I think it is because they are not at home," Russia replied wistfully, "and they love you because they miss you."

He wondered if his citizens would miss him so when they left his borders, but he feared they might not, and instead hoped they would always stay with him and never leave. France interrupted his musing by holding a spoonful of soup to his lips, and Russia smiled and opened his mouth to taste it.

It was probably silly, but Russia loved being treated like this, and he did not care if people stared at them as they fed each other - he had never been so cherished, and had never felt like cherishing someone else half so much.


	6. Chapter 6

Before the masquerade officially began, the empress tracked them down and pointedly asked how they had passed the time since the night before last. To Russia's horror, France began replying, in French, and the empress listened eagerly. He said nothing too specific, only that they had enjoyed themselves, thoroughly, several times, in different positions, and finally he ended by kissing her hand and saying, "After our exertions, I fear that we may not be able to dance for very long, your highness. My sincere apologies."

Never had Russia been so grateful for France's chattering.

"Thank you," he whispered as the empress glided away, satisfied, and France smirked.

"It was the truth, was it not?"

They donned masks, Russia that of a horned owl, France a fox, and in the flurry of jeweled brocade and lace petticoats, they slipped through the crowd of dancers, planning to sit out for this ball and just converse. But before the two of them could reach the chairs, their progress was halted by a pair of beauties in swan and pheasant masks. For his part, France was delighted to be introduced to Russia's sisters, but Russia broke out into a cold sweat under the force of Belarus' gimlet stare. The four were swept away when the orchestra started playing again, and Belarus, who had gone through such great pains to remove the insipid Baltic brothers from the household, only to have her rightful place supplanted by some dandy from western Europe, seemed absolutely intent on not letting her brother go to another dance partner for more than a few turns. Russia desperately looked for help from France, but he was much too preoccupied with admiring Ukraine's impressive assets, and distressed, Russia attempted to lose Belarus during the next contredanse. Seeing her younger brother dash off, Ukraine gasped and followed after her siblings, France compelled to chase after all three, thinking this must be some sort of game.

France was still searching for them by the time the sisters found Russia hiding behind a marble statue. Apparently, they had come to Saint Petersburg only to give him a warning, or at least Ukraine arrived for that reason, Belarus had her other motives as well. The three bent their heads together, hands clasped, conversing softly, and that was how France found them. The sisters then politely excused themselves, needing to return to their homes, and expressing his regret that they must leave so soon, France kissed Ukraine and Belarus on their cheeks, not realizing how close he was to being stabbed in the guts several times.

After they had left, Russia could still hear their dire words ringing in his ears, and he hugged France tightly, tears welling up in his eyes.

"What is it? I am here, darling, do not cry, please."

* * *

Try as he might, Russia could not help but worry, and could not bring himself to tell France what was bothering him. His fears were not enough to significantly mar the bliss of the next three days spent with his guest, but as he feared, this happiness did not last for long.

In the middle of a private dinner for the empress' inner court, the manservant had handed France a letter, and upon glancing over its contents, he had to excuse himself from the table.

Russia followed him out into the courtyard, watching him wring his handkerchief in helpless agony. His own eyes stung in empathy, and he called out softly to France, who only shook his head and sobbed in response.

He waited until France could compose himself, and he held his arms out to him, enfolding him tenderly in his embrace.

"Oh, Russia, my beloved, I c-can't believe it, I can not!" He continued weeping into Russia's coat, his entire body trembling like a flower in a storm. Russia gently plucked the crumpled letter out of France's grip and tried to read the elegant scrawl.

"Th-they wrote to tell me that my sweet little Pierre has died."

"Pierre?" he asked, just a little bit jealous of whoever Pierre was.

"Yes, my bird, Pierre number 16, he is dead. Most likely for a few weeks by now. Poor little thing, and I was not there to bury him!" France burst into a fresh bout of weeping, and Russia glanced at him, concerned. Although France seemed quite prone to dramatics, surely this was excessive emotion for the death of a creature even more short-lived than a human.

Then it occurred to him that there was something else behind this, not just the death of a pet, however beloved, but before Russia could read the postscript and decipher the signature, France had retrieved his letter and stuffed it hurriedly into his pocket.

"I am so sorry, Russia, but my time here in Saint Petersburg has come to an end. I must go home. My people need me."

"But… they can wait for little while, can't they?" Unspoken was his own need.

"Oh, _mon petit chou_ , it is not that simple." France wiped at his reddened eyes and sighed. "Please, I need to be alone now. I must get my things…"

"Tonight? Why so soon?" Russia asked plaintively, grasping France by the shoulders. "Why not tomorrow?" Please, he begged wordlessly, just one more night together.

France tried to pull away, but finally he gave in and whispered, "At dawn, I will leave with the sunrise. Now come with me, dear, quickly."

They kissed and hurried to his room with their fingers entwined, not wanting to let go. Throughout the night, as France gathered his possessions into his bags, Russia hovered by his side, trying to let him know how much he would miss what they shared this past week. In one bag he had tucked a rolled up sheet of paper, a sketch from one of their drawing sessions, in another, a luxuriant fur muffler, the book of fairy tales, various little trinkets such as those to remind France of their time together. France thanked him again and again, but he could tell that he was thinking of home, and not of Russia, and he did not blame him.

It was deep into the night when Russia finally picked an exhausted France up and deposited him into his bed, and they made love once more, hearts beating in unison, bodies joining and fitting together in one perfect moment of ecstasy before separating at last. In the warmth of the afterglow, they confessed to each other secrets they could not share before tonight, when urgency demanded honesty.

Though it was difficult to put into words, Russia revealed to France that he was the first to have shown him such love and affection, without asking anything but trust in return, and for that he would follow him to the ends of the earth if he could. And France confessed that he would have feared Russia like the others feared him, but for the promise a little boy made to him centuries ago.

"You said you wanted to marry me then," France murmured, voice softened with nostalgia, and Russia smiled until he thought his heart would split from joy.

"I still do, now, more than ever."

* * *

Dawn came too soon, and every passing minute was exquisite torment for Russia. They took France's luggage to the front hall for the footmen to load the carriage and together, the two wandered the halls of the Winter Palace once more. Russia opened the door to an inner courtyard, and there France heard the chorus song of a hundred birds greeting the morning sun through the windows of the aviary.

"Listen to them, France, they are singing for you," Russia told him, voice trembling with hope. "Live with me in my home, and I will make this city a paradise for you, even better than Paris, than Versailles. I will make you happy, like no other can, like no other will. I love you, and I know you love me."

"Oh, Russia, I do love you, and I am glad you love me. But I cannot be happy here, you know that. Don't you?"

Tears dripping down his face, Russia shook his head stubbornly. "Just give me a chance, we won't know until we try. Please… please don't leave me alone, France. I do not think I can bear the pain."

" _Mon coeur_ , my place is not with you, though I wish it could be. Now let me go, please, it's nearly time for me to leave."

Russia clenched his fists, despairing that fate should take the one he loved away. It didn't matter that France was needed at home by his king and queen and people, Russia needed him, too.

"It's not fair…" he whispered at last. "It's not fair that we should meet like this, and then separate so soon. We may never get the chance again."

"Russia…" France replied gently, "That may be so, but remember what we had. Love as you will, and think of me, as I shall think of you."

Swallowing his bitterness, wiping his eyes and nose with his coat sleeve, Russia nodded, and he silently led France back to where the carriage waited to take him home. Nothing could replace the emptiness he felt when France turned away, looking to the western horizon.

* * *

Russia would try, try his best to fill the hole in his chest left behind when France went away, but none could compare to him, and as the days turned into months into years into decades, his loneliness gradually scabbed over, leaving a sense of dullness behind. But one could live with dullness as one could not with loneliness, and he lifted his head again under the leadership of his empress. He grew and strove and learned and tried to fill his house with beauty and life, as he knew France would have wanted, though it was never as simple as before.

They did meet again, sooner than Russia had expected, but France was sick, as ill as his sisters had predicted, as he had guessed, rotting on the inside from the disease his own intelligence had wrought. Though he wept over this betrayal, Russia managed to hold off the invasion, letting fire and starvation burn out the sickness that had changed his love like this.

Coughing up black blood all over his beautiful uniform, France stopped to blow him a kiss over the dead and dying, and then retreated with his little emperor, while all around them the winds of winter screamed and howled in triumph.

I am sorry, Russia called out, and listened, tears freezing on his cheeks, for the answer.

_Thank you._

But running as fast as he could, he could not catch up to them. So Russia stood alone at the border of the abandoned city, imagining that if he could try enough, he could smell the scent of roses, hear the singing of birds, feel the southern sun of another era.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will explain a little bit more regarding the history; France here is under the rule of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, on the brink of the French Revolution, Pierre is the metaphor for things going terribly back in France, the reason he has to leave Russia. The epilogue is based on Napoleon's attempted invasion of Moscow in 1812, where he was defeated after the Russians set fire to the city and disease and winter decimated the French army. I like to think that France's affection for Russia helped him become more confident, and although they probably never really became close again, it is canon that in the 20th century, Russia still looks up to France and France still gives him advice. Although now that it's the 21st century... lmao not really.


End file.
